


Whispers of a Melody

by Ange_de_la_Mort



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Hair Brushing, M/M, Spoilers, mentioned past momxu
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-13 07:23:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18464218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ange_de_la_Mort/pseuds/Ange_de_la_Mort
Summary: Sometimes, Xigbar appreciates other people taking care of him. It's always been like that ...





	Whispers of a Melody

Technically, he's got everything he needs. Technically, he could start right now and get it over with. It would take how long? Ten minutes? Thirty? Maybe an hour. At most. And then it would be over and he wouldn't have to deal with it anymore.  
  
It would be so easy.  
  
But instead of going the easy way, he keeps sitting here trying desperately not to think about the task at hand. Which of course only leads to him thinking about it even more. That's the way the human mind works, and even if he is now a Nobody, he once was a human being for long enough - more than one, to be exact, or maybe only one, but wearing different shapes, who even keeps track anymore? - to know that the way the human mind works is universally applicable and, sadly, absolutely not debatable.   
  
Like ... if someone were to tell him not to think about pink elephants. What would happen? Yeah. Exactly. He'd be automatically either thinking of these things or forcing himself not to think of them, which in the end only means that he _would be_ ... and so on.  
  
Anyway, that's the way it is, time and time again, when Xigbar tries not to think about one of the more unpleasant parts of his tasks by pushing them into the furthest corner of his crammed and busy brain: These asshole thoughts don't vanish, on the contrary, they firmly settle down. And no matter what he's spending his time with, they're always there to knock during the most inappropriate moments asking in a disgustingly passive-aggressive tone, "Haven't you forgotten something?"  
  
Maybe it's the last bit of defiance he's kept, though his heart and much of his emotion have faded like the memory of a beautiful dream always starts fading right after waking up, but every time those thoughts come he deliberately ignores them.  
  
Until that just doesn't work anymore.  
  
Like right now.  
  
It' s upsetting him. Taunting him. The white sheet of paper he's been staring at for about two weeks now without ever once touching it at all. It mocks him, just like that pen that feels awkward, disproportionately heavy between his fingers.  
  
Just like the deadline, which he initially dismissed and disregarded as "very far away", but which is now getting closer and closer, constantly haunting him and lurking in the furthest corners of his brain like a miserable stalker, standing in front of his window at night and waving to him whenever he's about to fall asleep.  
  
Maybe he has fucked up. Maybe he does that from time to time, but usually he doesn't ever need to worry about it. What's the worst that can happen? Saix berating him and yelling for five minutes before just rolling his eyes and letting him piss off again?  
  
Yeah.  
  
Yeah, that sounds about right. It's not like anything of consequence will happen. No matter what his fellow Organization members might secretly think or not-so-secretly say about him, he will never have to face anything like real - or imagined - fury or anger or punishments.  
  
But that's not the problem. The problem lies more in the principle of the thing. Principles are ... admittedly, not really Xigbar's thing, but this is about _the principle of the thing_!  
  
With a soft sigh he puts the pen aside and puts his chin in his hands, stares at the sheet of paper, as if he could condemn it alone with angry looks to vanish into thin air. ... heh. Probably he really could. Could it just place it in any dimension between worlds and imagine what it would be like if a traveler flew by in a gummi ship looking for the deeper meaning behind a stupid sheet of paper lying around in the middle of the route ... lying? Really? Would it be lying there? Or would it rather be some floating, flying thing?   
  
Slowly the door behind him opens, a faint, barely noticeable breeze.  
  
Before Xigbar can decide whether to ignore whomever dares to come to him now or to roll his remaining eye and ask the intruder wants from him now, can't they see he's busy, cause he's very busy being pissed off, two arms encircle him from behind and a cheek is pressed against his own. "Hey, Xiggy!"  
  
"Oh. You." Well, there are certainly more unpleasant visitors than Demyx. Demyx can stay. At least for now. He scoffs quietly and peers up at him, raises his brow.  
  
"Yeah, me. Why do you sound so surprised? Who did you expect?"  
  
Xigbar shrugs his shoulders and tilts his head back in order to be able to see Demyx better, can't help but smile a bit himself at the almost always present grin on Demyx's lips. "Nobody, actually."  
  
"Wow, what a pun. Did you have to practive that one, old man?" He keeps on grinning and shifts his weight a little, leaning completely on Xigbar's shoulders.  
  
The corners of his mouth twitch and he shakes his head, resting his temple against Demyx's. "What do you _want_ , kid?" he asks without really bothering to sound annoyed.   
  
"Just checking on what you're doing!" is the cheerful reply. "So. What _are_ you doing?"  
  
Yeah, that's a good question. One he sometimes wishes he knew an answer to. "Well, obviously I'm writing a report."  
  
Demyx blinks. Xigbar can see that out of the corner of his eye. Then Demyx raises an eyebrow. And then the other one. "That ... doesn't look like writing to me."  
  
 _Aren't you a smart one sometimes_. Xigbar sighs and waves his hand, a pejorative gesture towards the table and pen and existence in general. "I ... haven't gotten very far."  
  
"Yeah, no shit, I can see that."  
  
"I am ... very glad to see that you haven't lost your eyesight along with your heart," says Xigbar, rolling his own remaining eye. He stretches out his legs and crosses his ankles. "If you're just here to comment on how I suck at doing some work I've tried to evade for weeks, then consider maybe _not_ doing that and fucking right off instead."  
  
Now it's Demyx's turn to sigh deeply. Loudly. Maybe a little exaggeratedly. One can never be that sure with him. "Oh Xiggy, don't be like that," he mumbles and puts his chin on Xigbar's head, patting his scarred cheek.   
  
Xigbar can't see his face now, not even out of the corner of his eye, but he's almost sure that Demyx has pushed the lower lip forward sulking like the little child he can sometimes be. He mentally shrugs at the memory of often just kissing him, biting his lower lip until Demyx howls in pain - most of the time way over the top and overacted, but only most of the time - to make him stop looking like he's making fun of him. "Like what?" he asks instead.  
  
" _Whiny_. It doesn't suit you."  
  
"I'm not ... " He doesn't finish the sentence, but crosses his arms in front of his chest, furrows his brows. He isn't whiny. Is he? "Maybe I am a little bit whiny. Just a bit, though. The tiniest bit."  
  
He cannot only hear Demyx's quiet laughter, but also feel it. "I love when you admit I'm right."  
  
"Yeah, it happens like once every five years."  
  
"But it _does_ \- yeah, fine, fine, don't get angry at me, I'm shutting up already." Demyx briefly pats him on the shoulder and then pulls away from him (Xigbar wouldn't admit it, but he misses that little bit of physical contact already) and places himself next to the desk, first tilting his head to one side, then to the other. "But seriously, what's wrong? Didn't you use to be a scientist?"  
  
"Part-time."  
  
"Yeah, sure, but my point still stands. Why do you trouble writing things down?"  
  
Xigbar sighs and leans backwards. The chair creaks a little, seesaws back, and if the laws of gravity didn't obey him and not the other way around, he would probably fall backwards to the floor. But this way he can easily bend his spine at an almost unnatural angle and hear each vertebra crack individually. Normally this relaxes him. Not this time. This time he can only stare at the ceiling in frustration and finally bury his face in his hands. "It's complicated. It's stupid! It's pathetic!"  
  
Demyx nudges his ankle with the tip of his boot. "Yeah, and so are you sometimes." When Xigbar takes his hand from his good eye to look at him, Demyx laughs softly. "Come on, what did I say about being mopey not fitting you?"  
  
"Weren't we talking about me being _whiny_ , not -" He's rolling his eye at himself, at both of them. At the fact that he should perhaps not feel that comfortable in Demyx's presence, should not admit weaknesses every now and then. ... fortunately Demyx is too scared to share his complaints with the others. ... not that they'd believe a word. "Fine," he says, and then again - "Fine!" - if only to bypass the silence between them that starts feeling uncomfortable and to put together the handful of words he wants to start with to explain his absolutely embarrassing problem of writing things down.  
  
It is not as if he could not write. Demyx is quite right: Braig was a scientist, albeit, as said, only a part of his time. As Braig, he had spent far too much time observing experiments, watching creatures bleed and listening to screams, only to turn his back shrugging and writing down everything he had seen.   
  
But above all, Braig had been good at telling stories. He had simply had a knack for that.   
  
Xigbar thinks of the many nights Braig spent sitting by Ienzo's bed telling him a story until the boy eventually fell asleep, dreamless and peaceful and smiling in his sleep at least; of the many evenings he spent with Dilan in a pub, sharing one of his stories. Sometimes the same one. Sometimes twice, three times, sometimes more often. No one had ever complained, not only because they were usually all drunk, but also because Braig's stories were always a little different from the last version, because he knew who to tell what and what to tell which way to keep the tension and interest. And he knew when to gesticulate and alter the emphasis to give the story completely different meanings despite the same or similar words.  
  
A narrated story can always be something new, can always contain something new. Something new, well worth discovering, perhaps resulting in a whole new story.  
  
A written story ... can't. Once the words have been phrased, written down, once the ink has dried on the paper, nothing can be changed - without starting all over again or secretly tearing up or erasing part of it. But if someone has already read the story, there will the questions, and then bewilderment. "Wasn't that different just now?" and "I don't remember that!" and "It's not right like that!"  
  
As soon as the ink has dried, as soon as one closes the book, the story is over. Dead. To say it quite plainly.  
  
Demyx looks at him for a long time with an unusual thoughtfulness. "I don't think I agree," he finally says. "I think a book lives on differently than a story. When you tell someone a story, they can forget stuff. With a book or a report, they can go and check what really happened. Refresh their memories."  
  
"And kill any possibility of imagining things for themselves. It's just ... really fucking boring. Makes me feel like I'm adding piles of dead people to a graveyard."  
  
"Wow, _someone_ sure is being melodramatic today." Demyx rolls his eyes and sits down on the desk, wiggling his feet. "Hey, how about you tell me and I write it down for you? Pick out the coolest version so you don't seem like a total loser in your report."  
  
That makes him laugh quietly. He shakes his head and pats Demyx on the thigh. "Cute. But we both know it doesn't work that way. I guess I just gotta man up or something and get shit over with."  
  
"Mhh", Demyx rubs his chin, then jerks up. "Oh. That reminds me. I wanted to tell you about a story I've heard." He grins and shrugs his shoulders. "If you wanna hear it, of course."  
  
"Sure. Spares me a few more minutes of agonizing over that report."  
  
Demyx silently forms the word "melodramatic" with his lips and laughs when Xigbar slaps his thigh again, this time a little harder. "Anyway, I was talking to Marluxia and-"  
  
"Really?" Xigbar drawls. "Since when are you guys talking to each other?"  
  
" _Okay_ , he was talking to Larxene and I pretended not to be there so they don't gang up and bully me. Sheesh, you're annoying today."  
  
He lays one hand on his chest and pretends to be offended. "Now, what is it? I've been whiny and mopey and melodramatic already, now I'm annoying, too?"  
  
"You're a multi-tasker. Now be quiet or I'll leave."  
  
"And _whatever_ would I do then?" He laughs and raises his hands to appease. "Sorry, sorry. Go on."  
  
Demyx sulks briefly and crosses his arms in front of his chest. "Anyway. As I was saying. He was talking about a world he'd seen a while ago. With a princess in a tower and a bunch of other things I wasn't paying attention to."  
  
"You really are horrible at telling stories." Xigbar smiles and rests his chin on one hand. "That's not meant to critizise you, by the way, I think it's almost endearing."  
  
"You're mocking me again, but I don't care because all I wanted to say is there is a princess in a tower with magic hair that glows like gold. And, uhm ... " He keeps silent for a moment and squints at the ceiling, clearly thinking about how to proceed. "You know, there was something about a hundred brush strokes a day and I kinda ... wanted to try that?"  
  
"What, brushing your hair?"  
  
"Not mine, you ass. Yours."  
  
Xigbar frowns and raises his eyebrows. "What? Brush it until it gets magic powers? I think you'd be disappointed."  
  
"No, I ... you're awful, you know that?" Slowly Demyx pushes his butt off the desk and shoves his index finger against Xigbar's nose. "I wanna brush your hair because it might be nice." He looks at him, scrutinizing him under his gaze. "And because you're obviously neglecting your looks."  
  
Xigbar laughs. "So you're taking the hair-brushing duty into your own hands? I'm flattered, kid. What do you think, does it really gotta be a hundred or can you stop when your arm starts hurting? Like, after five or six?"  
  
"Xiggy!"  
  
"I ... oh, come on, don't look at me like this! I didn't drown your cat or whatever, so can you ... please not do that?" He sighs and pulls Demyx onto his lap, presses a kiss to his cheek and then another to his forehead. "Fine. You can do to my hair whatever you want unless you start doing things that will make embarrass me in front of the others."  
  
"Yeah, you can do that all by yourself, you don't need my help." Demyx grumbles briefly and then grins at him, resting their foreheads together for a brief moment. "I'm gonna get the brush!" he then says excitedly and jumps from Xigbar's lap to disappear into the adjacent bathroom.  
  
Xigbar stays behind. Alone. Sighing. With the question of why he deserves this. And then he remembers why. And then it's actually okay between them, with them. At least for a few seconds, until Demyx comes out of the bathroom stomped, with the brush in his hand as if it were a weapon. "I hope you know how to use that thing. No need to poke my other eye out on accident, right?"  
  
"Who said anything about accidents?" There is a glint in Demyx's eyes, one that Xigbar never quite knows how to interpret. One that always appears when Demyx is joking. Or when he is serious. Or when he is convinced of himself. Sometimes it's almost a little strange to think about how long they've known each other, how much they know about each other, have shared with each other - memories, thoughts, body heat - and how foreign Demyx still seems to him from time to time. "If you're not on that bed in five seconds, I'll be ramming that brush into your eye on total purpose!"  
  
That makes him laugh, makes him shake his head in disbelief. "Fine, whatever. I'm not gonna get rid of you sometime soon anyway, right? So I might as well just let you have your _wicked ways with me."_  
  
"That's the spirit! What a good boy!"   
  
The generously granted five seconds become perhaps fifteen, perhaps thirty, because Xigbar refuses to lie down on his bed with his boots and coat still on, even if Demyx complains about it. Very weepily. Which, of course, Xigbar uses as ammunition to make fun of him. But sooner or later there he lies, waiting for the things to come.   
  
And they do. Very quickly and in the form of Demyx's gloved fingers, stroking briefly over his naked back and then loosening his hair tie (there's a tiny sting, a short, barely noticeable pain that makes the corners of his mouth twitch, that makes him think about whether Demyx maybe wasn't that far-off after all and he might have neglected some things _a little_ ).  
  
The next few minutes are a pleasant silence between them. Xigbar has placed his chin on his folded arms and closed his remaining eye, while Demyx sits by his side carefully combing his fingers through his hair before picking it up strand by strand and brushing it.  
  
"Who'd have thought something as simple as that could feel so nice?" is what Xigbar wants to ask, but doesn't. Because he already knows how nice something as simple as this can be ...   
  
_"Why do you care about my hair?" Luxu asks quietly, even as he hurries to strip out of his coat, even as he hastily sits cross-legged on the floor._  
  
 _The question of "why" is a question that is either not answered at all, or only with a mocking reply. This is something he already knows._  
  
 _But it seems to be more important to his master than he admits, because after all, he has been complaining all day that Luxu doesn't really take care of himself, doesn't take care of his hair. After all, his master has complained and sulked so much and for so long that Luxu has decided to let him do what he so obviously wants to._  
  
 _... they both know that it was planned by the master from the very beginning, and they know Luxu only follows some unspoken orders, no matter how he thinks he decides for something._  
  
 _"Can't have them think I overwork you so much that you can't even brush your hair," says his master and sits down with him. Luxu can't see his face, but he can tell that a grin has crept onto his master's face._  
  
 _He could now ask why he shouldn't comb it himself._  
  
 _He doesn't._  
  
 _That is part of this. Of what they both are._  
  
 _So he allows a big, heavy, gloved hand to lie on his naked shoulder and hold him where he is. So he allows the brush to go through his hair, through the tangle of dark curls that can never be tamed by anyone._  
  
 _Maybe he enjoys being touched like that. Maybe he enjoys listening to his master concentratedly humming a soft melody._  
  
 _Not that he'd ever tell him that. That is also part of them. The master gives what he wants to give and Luxu is grateful for everything._  
  
 _And yet ..._   
  
It takes a few moments until he realizes that the melody is not a fragment of his memory, but instead one that Demyx is quietly humming. Hastily, Xigbar raises his head to look over his shoulder.  
  
"Hey, watch out!" Demyx grumbles and waggles the brush in front of his nose. "Sheesh, man, I almost ripped your hair out." His features become worried and he raises his eyebrows. "Hey, what's wrong? Did I hurt you?"  
  
"No, I ..." He hesitates, looking at Demyx from top to bottom thoroughly, scrutinizing. Thoughtful. "Where did you learn that?"  
  
"Brushing someone's hair? Uh, hello, I have hair myself?"  
  
"No, not that!" Skittishly, he rubs his hand over his face. "That melody!"  
  
"Huh?" Demyx lets the hand with the brush drop and tilts his head, taps his lower lip with his index finger. "Dunno," he finally says cheerfully. "Must have heard it on some mission, I guess? You know I have a thing for music, like a green thumb, but with songs instead?"  
  
"... I guess."  
  
"Why though? Don't you like it?"  
  
Xigbar shrugs his shoulders and puts his head back onto the pillow. "That's not it. I just ... it reminds me of something. Of someone I knew when I was a teen."  
  
Demyx chuckles and resumes brushing. "Really? How many centuries ago was that?"  
  
It's a joke. A dumb joke about his age and the graying hair and the scars. Nothing more. It has no deeper meaning. It can't be otherwise.  
  
But Xigbar cannot help but think. Cannot help but compare Demyx, sweet, carefree, easily frightened but sometimes brave Demyx to the man he'd never dare to call anything else but his master.   
  
The space where his heart once was feels heavy all of a sudden, aching.  
  
And when Demyx puts the brush down and places a kiss onto his head, Xigbar isn't sure if he wants his thoughts and assumptions to be true ... or if the mere possibility frightens him to the core.


End file.
